


no one will be a stranger

by thescrewtapedemos



Series: Radiation Blues [2]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Electronic Dance Music RPF
Genre: Danger Days AU, Dark, M/M, Minor Violence, Rough Sex, evil!sebastian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one gets under Sebastian's skin like Kavinsky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no one will be a stranger

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song of the same name by dax riggs. shoutout to molly for betaing.

The bike, Sebastian decides as he skids to a stop in the loose desert dirt, may have been a bad idea.

Kavinsky pays the spray of dirt and sand that peppers at his feet exactly zero mind.

He’s leaning against his car hood, the brilliant star of a cigarette lighting up his face. He inhales with a showy flourish of the wrist as Sebastian cuts the motor and kicks bad-temperedly at the stand. He’s parked exactly where the messenger had said he would be, an easy half-mile from the outskirts of town. Right on the border of what’s Sebastian’s and what’s neutral desert, deliberate as hell.

Sebastian hates everything about the picture Kavinsky makes, his sunglasses and awful jacket, his ass on the hood of the car, the shine of cigarette flame on his blunt fingers. How it makes his mouth dry with want. 

Fucker.

“Hello, Sebastian,” Kavinsky says and flutters his fingers in a mocking little wave.

Sebastian grits his teeth and heaves the backpack from his shoulder, letting it thump to the ground carelessly. Bottles clink together, muffled by the backpack, and dust clouds up around his feet. Kavinsky doesn’t bother to look down, sucks thoughtfully on his cigarette instead and blows a plume of smoke towards the sky.

“Kavinsky,” Sebastian says and raises an eyebrow until Kavinsky finally looks at him.

“What does a man have to do to get you to call him by his real name, hmm?” he asks, faux-sweet, and Sebastian swallows down the pulse of annoyance in the pit of his stomach. He knows better than to rise to that bait.

“Kavinsky,” he repeats, and holds out a hand. Kavinsky snorts and heaves himself upright, reaching out and slapping a box of cigarettes into Sebastian’s outstretched hand. He nudges a plastic bag at his feet too, enough that Sebastian can see the piles of little boxes. Enough for a few weeks, a couple of months maybe if Sebastian stretches.

“Excellent,” he says aloud, and flips the pack open. It’s missing one, and Sebastian glances to the cigarette dangling from Kavinsky’s lips.

He doesn’t say a word. Kavinsky’s smirk widens anyway. Sebastian ignores it, grits his teeth against the biting annoyance and taps a cigarette out of the pack.

Kavinsky proffers a light, a battered silver Zippo with a mark where something had been enameled to its scratched surface, years ago. Sebastian ignores that too. Digs his own lighter out of his pocket. A Bic, black and so old and scuffed the surface is almost gray.

Kavinsky doesn’t mention it when Sebastian rests his ass on the hood of his car, inches from him. He doesn’t even have the decency to look annoyed, just scoots over a few inches. He just takes the last drag of his cigarette and flicks the butt away into the dark, folding his arms and looking off towards the lights of Sebastian’s city, barely visible in the distance.

The cigarette is stale as hell but it’s still nicotine and Sebastian hums approvingly at the first burning lungful. 

Kavinsky doesn’t say anything so neither does Sebastian. He smokes in silence for a while in lieu of words, leaning against the warm metal of the car hood. He’s never really stopped wondering at how Kavinsky is so cold and his car is always so warm. Kavinsky will never tell him, he knows that much.

“Passed your latest display on the way here,” Kavinsky says at last, when a good two thirds of Sebastian’s cigarette are gone. “Creative.”

Sebastian spares half a thought for the trio of corpses strung up by the road. They’d been there for days. He wonders idly what the desert sun had done to them.

“Treason,” he says brusquely. “Crossing me has consequences.”

“You’re a bastard,” Kavinsky tells him. On anyone else the words would have been condemnation or admiration, some reaction at least, anything at all. On Kavinsky… disinterest. Nothing. 

Infuriating. 

Infuriating in its apathy and more so in the hot need to _force_ a reaction from him it inspires in Sebastian’s stomach. _Fucker_.

“The Phoenix Witch has them now,” Sebastian says. “She can deal with their traitor souls.”

He keeps his tone casual and watches his words impact in the sudden rigidity of Kavinsky’s shoulders. There’s a muscle at the corner of his jaw that’s suddenly solid with tension. He should probably be scared, Sebastian knows, but all he can feel is vicious anticipation tightening in his gut.

Like the warm car and cold skin and everything else about Kavinsky that marks him as something inhuman, Kavinsky’s _problem_ with the Witch is something Sebastian’s pretty sure he’s never going to be allowed to know. It doesn’t matter, anyway. All he _needs_ to know is that it’s one of the best ways to get under Kavinsky’s skin.

“Bastard,” Kavinsky repeats, and there’s no apathy in his tone now. It’s poisonous.

“They belong to me,” Sebastian says, doesn’t stop the little smile from spreading nastily across his mouth. “They _owe_ me. I own them and they'd better not forget it.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Kavinsky says, and the luminous fury in his voice shouldn’t be having Sebastian’s breathing coming fast like this, shouldn’t be making his mouth water with the desire to bite down. It is, though, it is and Sebastian is aching with it.

He doesn’t look over. Just takes another drag and blows it out again, bright in the dark air.

“I know,” he says.

“They call you a dictator, y’know,” Kavinsky says and it’s such an unexpected sentence Sebastian looks at him without thinking. His tone had been violence beneath the thinnest veneer of conversation.

Kavinsky’s watching him narrowly over his sunglasses.

The bloody light painting the inside of the lenses and his eyelashes isn’t new, hasn’t been for so long Sebastian can bring to mind his life before the zones more easily than he can a time he didn’t know Kavinsky was something altogether different. Sebastian remembers first seeing those eyes. The surge of fear and desire, the fear of _unknown_ and the desire, the need to understand and have and own. 

The fear is gone, gone in how he knows Kavinsky now. Vodka-soaked, foul-mouthed piece of shit, drunk on his own legend, but not dangerous. Not really, not to Sebastian.

Sebastian still wants him, though. That hasn’t faded at all, still knife-sharp and agonizing.

“I am one,” he says, because it’s true.

“Prince of your own shit City,” Kavinsky says sweetly, too close and too mocking. “That’s what they say.”

Thoughtfully Sebastian takes the last drag of his cigarette, feeling out the edges of the anger pulsing thick and hot in the base of his throat. It’s like it’s choking him, adrenaline-bright. He exhales and flicks the butt to the desert floor, grinding it out with the toe of his boot. He watches the ashes scatter in the breeze for a moment.

Kavinsky’s nose breaks under his fist so satisfyingly.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Kavinsky shouts, stumbling back a few steps. “You little fucker!” He’s clutching his face with both hands, eyes squinted, and his sunglasses hit the ground at his feet.

Sebastian thinks he should probably push the advantage. He doesn’t, isn’t really sure why except it isn’t really a fight he’s looking for. He settles back onto the hood of Kavinsky’s pretty little car instead, shaking the impact out of his fingers. He bares his teeth in an animal play at a smile when Kavinsky finally pulls his hand away from his face and looks his way.

“I’m not scared of you, _Kavinsky_ ,” Sebastian tells him. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Kavinsky bares his teeth back, dark with what passes for his blood. Sebastian can almost taste it on his own lips, too much metal and too little human.

“Not scared?” Kavinsky hisses, breathless and incandescent with rage. His eyes are bloody, reflecting from his silver hair and eyelashes. His posture’s all relaxed readiness. Sebastian’s not getting another punch in, not like he had, not without an element of surprise. “Just fucked up on how much I get under your skin, is that it?”

He sounds distorted through a nose Sebastian’s dead certain he’d broken, though it’s probably well on its way to healed already. He’d felt something crunch under his fist, sick and exciting. Kavinsky’s still bleeding sluggishly, thick and too dark, almost syrupy down his lip and into his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sebastian says, knows his sneer is searing and angry and completely pointless. Kavinsky doesn’t care, has _never_ cared.

“I’m not wrong,” Kavinsky continues, prowling forward again. He looks too good and Sebastian hates him for the way his pants are suddenly tight, cock swelling at the thought of getting his teeth into him. “King of your little City, you must have a hundred people begging to lick your shoes for you. You need me because I don’t give a single fuck about you, that’s why you can’t say no to me.”

“You don't?” Sebastian snarls, hears the heat rising in his tone, hates that all he wants is to fuck that smart mouth. Hates the way the anger only feeds the heat roaring in his gut. Hates and hates and hates.

“I don't give a shit about you,” Kavinsky murmurs venomously, expression making him a liar.

“Then why do you keep coming _back_?” Sebastian demands and surges up to grab Kavinsky by the hair before the man can get in a single word.

He thinks, in the second before their mouths connect in the brutal click of teeth and the taste of Kavinsky’s blood, that he sees Kavinsky’s face twist. Something like regret or maybe anger and sadness or, or, or. A million things it could be, a million different interpretations with those shining red eyes and bloody mouth.

It vanishes in the sting of lips caught in the way their teeth are clicking together, the overwhelming feeling of a hand in his hair, another skidding down his back. Kavinsky tastes like metal and blood, and underneath it like smoke. Messy, wet, his lips still too cold to be human sending thrills electric down his spine.

Sebastian catches his lower lip in his teeth and bites down, relishes the shock is sends through Kavinsky’s body. Kavinsky’s hand digs into the base of his spine in retaliation, yanking him close and up into the bulk of his body. It forces Sebastian’s legs open, pulls them together until they’re pressed together thigh to chest. 

He can feel Kavinsky’s erection against his hip, tenting his pants. Kavinsky groans into Sebastian’s mouth when Sebastian slips a hand down between them to cup it, massaging over it slowly.

It’s cool, hard and straining but barely warm under his palm. He relishes the way Kavinsky’s hands tighten as he moves, fingertips digging into his ass and the back of his neck. It’s heady and powerful and he laughs when Kavinsky breaks and curses, pulling away from the kiss to pant. His teeth press into the join of Sebastian’s neck and shoulder, pressure flirting with the edge of pain. 

“Should fuck you mouth,” Kavinsky growls against Sebastian’s skin, the sensation making his spine an involuntary arch. “Would shut you up for once, fuck.” 

Sebastian yanks Kavinsky’s hair, pulling his head back and slamming their mouths together again. His lip splits with it, in a minor nova of pain behind his eyes and the renewed taste of blood, but it’s less important. He’s so fucking hard, so turned on his breathing comes ragged and quick in the moments where they separate. 

He feels his pants unsnap and then Kavinsky’s hand is around his cock and Sebastian’s crying out into the kiss. It’s too rough, the cold night air and Kavinsky’s cool palm, pulling him free and thumbing the precum beading at the head. 

He lets it happen for a moment, the rough up-down motion Kavinsky sets. Then he pushes him away, a shove to Kavinsky’s waist that makes him stumble back a few inches. Enough space for Sebastian to get his hands on his waistband, undoing the buttons with more impatience than finesse. 

Kavinsky’s cock is familiar in his hands, thick and heavy and that odd almost-heat. It’s Kavinsky’s turn to moan now, grip tightening on Sebastian’s hair and shoulder. He’s stepping forward a moment later, bumping noses for a moment before they’re kissing again, hips aligning clumsily in a flash of friction and painful denim. 

It’s almost enough, for a long minute or so. It’s so fucking good, and he could come from this if he wanted. It’s not what he wants though, not really. 

Kavinsky makes an angry noise when Sebastian pushes him back this time. 

“Gonna fuck me or just rub off on me like a fucking teenager?” Sebastian demands viciously and laughs at the look Kavinsky gives him. It’s rage, bright in his red eyes, but it’s want too. The impotent anger that Kavinsky wants exactly what Sebastian’s telling him to do, wants his cock in Sebastian’s ass too much to say no. He wants Kavinsky’s fingers, his cock, wants the savage fullness and bright pain-pleasure.

He drops his hand to his cock when Kavinsky doesn’t answer right away, lets his head fall back a little as he starts to jerk himself off. It’s a little bit of a show but it still feels so fucking good. He’s been hard for what feels like lifetimes. 

“Where’s your shit,” Kavinsky grits at last, giving up on pretending he doesn’t want it. “Your lube, where-?”

Sebastian doesn’t answer immediately, caught up in his hand on his cock, and Kavinsky growls, hitches him up to take his ass in both hands and spread it. Sebastian cries out, head falling back and cock twitching at the feeling of Kavinsky’s rough fingertip straying over his hole. 

There’s a split moment where Sebastian’s petty pride wars with his common sense. When the childish urge to refuse to tell him wars with how _very little_ he likes the idea of being fucked on nothing but spit and sweat. It’s the thought of having to drive back that decides it, in the end. That and how little he also likes the idea of being in too much pain to walk when he gets back to town.

“Saddlebag,” he pants, and kicks Kavinsky in the thigh when he doesn’t pulls his fingers away. Kavinsky lets go abruptly, cursing, and turns to riffle through Sebastian’s bag with frantic speed.

Sebastian takes the chance to yank his pants and underwear free, dropping them carelessly to the dirt. Kavinsky’s back before he can take off more, pressing into his space and knocking him back into the hood. He hadn’t tucked himself back in, hadn’t pulled his pants down either. 

Kavinsky’s position between his legs spreads his thighs wide, leaves him feeling more exposed than before. His cock twitches with the feeling. With Kavinsky’s cold hands on him, pressing unforgiving fingers against his skin uncaring of the bruises he’s going to have tomorrow.

“C’mon, get up on-,” Kavinsky hisses into the scant inch between them before giving up on words.

His hands slip under Sebastian’s ass again and lift, and it takes Sebastian a second to understand. He gets it fast though, gets his knees up on the hood under him and spreads his legs. The vulnerability of the position grates but vanishes rapidly when Kavinsky’s blunt finger skate over his ass again, a long kneading grope. It spreads him open and Sebastian bites down viciously on his lip to stop the moan.

“Fucking, get _moving_ ,” he snarls when he gets his breath back, when he can talk without his words descending into moaning.

Kavinsky laughs into Sebastian’s chest and his hands vanish from Sebastian’s ass. It leaves him off balance and forced to brace himself on Kavinsky’s shoulders. He misses the sound of the lube cap in the struggle, only knows it’s been used by the cold wetness that’s suddenly trailing down the cleft of his ass and over his hole.

He muffles this moan by biting down on Kavinsky’s shoulder, rough material of his jacket in his teeth. It doesn’t do enough and the noise echoes in the night.

Kavinsky’s finger follows the lube a moment later, blunt and thick and rough. It probes at his hole for a moment, cautious and then bolder, pressing against and then inside, breaching him and forcing a rough exhale. 

He can feel every part as it slips inside him, every centimeter despite the lube trailing down his ass and slick in his hole. Just one feels like almost too much already, how thick and relentlessly it drives into him, but still not enough. Never enough, and he hisses out a groan and then bites down again on Kavinsky’s shoulder. Harder than before.

“Fuck,” Kavinsky hisses harshly against Sebastian’s ear and the finger in his ass crooks, brushing the place inside him that sets off stars in his vision.

“More, just,” Sebastian pants out and spreads his legs wider. “Another, fucking _god_.”

“Slut,” Kavinsky says and he sounds too fucking pleased with it. Sebastian wants to say something – means to, means to bite again or maybe just fucking punch him, but Kavinsky’s finger is pulling out and pressing in again, two this time.

Sebastian feels it through his whole body, the stretch and internal struggle to relax into it, to accept the intrusion. It’s so good, the burn of it and the slick wetness of lube. Addicting and still, still not enough. He rides the fingers for several long moments though, takes them as deep as they’ll go.

He’s about to say something when Kavinsky’s fingers slip free again. This time he hears the lube bottle, the soft _snap_ of the cap and an obscene squelching noise, the sound of wet fingers rubbing together. He grits his teeth and ignores his dick twitching, just resettles himself on his knees and waits. 

Kavinsky doesn’t waste time, just trails three fingers over his hole once and then drives in. It stings, it fucking _hurts_ and sets off lights in Sebastian’s vision. His body fights to take it all and he goes limp with the strain, leans his forehead against Kavinsky and pants through it. 

Kavinsky presses in until the join of his pinky stops him and pauses for a moment, fingers moving and setting off more lights in Sebastian’s vision. He hisses, and then groans when Kavinsky pulls back and thrusts in again. It’s slow but gaining, as Sebastian’s body adjusts and opens up for him, until the pain is nothing but a distant burn. 

When he can coordinate his limbs at last he reaches back and pushes at Kavinsky’s hand until his fingers pull free. It leaves him feeling empty. 

“Your cock,” Sebastian demands, and Kavinsky gives a helpless grunt that makes Sebastian’s dick twitch. His hands are back under Sebastian’s ass a moment later, lifting him in a motion free of finesse and entirely desperation. He’s dropped onto the hood, legs pulled up to wrap around Kavinsky’s waist. He’s still wearing the stupid jacket and Sebastian uses it to pull him closer, until his cock is resting in the crease of Sebastian’s hip and thigh.

“I said,” Sebastian growls and digs his nails into Kavinsky’s side to make the point. “Put your fucking _cock_ in me.”

The noise Kavinsky makes in response is half rage and half desperate arousal and his hands on Sebastian tighten. A moment later he’s being hauled up, hips lifted into the air. Sebastian scrambles to brace, an arm beneath him and the other hand fisted in Kavinsky’s jacket. Kavinsky’s not helping, one hand on his cock guiding himself into place and the other spreading his ass.

For a moment the head of Kavinsky’s cock is pressed against his hole and it’s too much, too thick. Sebastian doesn’t know if he can take it, even with the slick slide of lube and how much he wants it.

And then Kavinsky presses into him and the feeling – the stretch, thickness, the burn and sting and mounting feeling of _full_ \- makes him cry out. It’s all he can do to pant and moan, hips moving in tiny, involuntary motions. He’s so hard it hurts and vaguely he wants to get a hand on himself, wants to come so badly his body is screaming with it, but he can’t pull himself together to do more than brace himself on the car and Kavinsky’s shoulder. It’s impossible to think through, his head is white noise and _feeling_.

Kavinsky bottoms out with a hissed noise, almost pained, and pauses for a long moment. He’s waiting, Sebastian realizes distantly. Waiting for Sebastian to adjust to his cock like some sort of gentleman.

“Fuck me,” he grits out when he can speak, throat thick and voice hoarse.

“Seb-,” Kavinsky says, and he sounds _wrecked_. It’s a bolt of pleasure and hot triumph in one down Sebastian’s spine, the need he hears in Kavinsky’s tone.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” he hisses, louder, and uses the leverage of his hand on the car to lift himself, to hitch his hips and force Kavinsky somehow deeper than before. It punches a short cry from him and a deeper moan from Kavinsky, involuntary and loud.

The next moment Kavinsky’s pulling back and then thrusting forward, hard and rough and perfect. It slams Sebastian back into the car, bruising force that hurts and feels so good he can’t stop himself crying out with it. His arms give way in the next moment and he falls back against the hood, back arching against the warmth of the metal.

Kavinsky growls, leans forward and braces himself, driving forward relentlessly again and again. It’s constant, jolting motion, friction and burn and heat. Sebastian doesn’t even try to stop himself this time, lets his voice go on a moan that rises and breaks with every thrust. He has his hands free now and he tangles one in Kavinsky’s hair, wrapping the other around his own cock.

It feels so good he curses and his hips buck. Their position shifts again, Sebastian slipping up the car hood, and he opens his eyes on a particularly vicious thrust. They’re nose to nose, so close all Sebastian has to do is tilt his head and they’re kissing.

It tastes of blood still and Kavinsky stutters for a long moment, relentless motion pausing and then picking up again, renewed and utterly free of rhythm. It’s increasingly desperate and Kavinsky’s moaning into the kiss, turning messy and uncoordinated for long minutes until it’s just wet mouths and the catch of teeth.

“Fuck,” Kavinsky groans at last, pulling away with an abruptness that stings. “Turn over, shit, I need-.”

Sebastian cries out as Kavinsky slips free with a pang of visceral loss.

He allows himself a few seconds longer splayed on the metal of the hood. He _aches_ , the painful hardness of his cock and sting of where he’s going to have bruises tomorrow morning utterly indistinguishable from the frantic need to be filled. To have Kavinsky’s cock again.

He struggles up, batting away Kavinsky’s offered hand and turns over. It’s better this way, braced against the hood, Kavinsky slipping into place against his back, erection pressing against his ass. Still almost-hot, hard and twitching as Sebastian rolls his hips. He bites back a moan at the feeling of how wet he is with lube, the tease of Kavinsky’s cock sliding against his hole.

“Gonna stay there all night?” he bites out, and then shouts in shock when Kavinsky’s hand lands on his ass in a brisk spank. Before he can twist to glare or possibly try to break Kavinsky’s nose again Kavinsky is leaning over him, blanketing his back with cool almost-heat and pressure.

“Fucking cocktease,” Kavinsky’s hissing in his ear and Sebastian can only moan because Kavinsky’s hand is spreading his ass and his cock is pressing in again.

It doesn’t hurt this time, is just heat and friction and again that nearly unbearable fullness. Sebastian groans with every inch, hitching noises that he doesn’t have the thought to be embarrassed about.

Kavinsky doesn’t leave him time to adjust when he’s fully seated in Sebastian this time. He just pulls back and thrusts forward, brutal and quick, building a pounding rhythm.

Sebastian braces himself on one hand and wraps the other around his cock. He can feel his orgasm coming, tight in his balls and the pit of his stomach. It’s hot and tingling through his nerves. He wants to come but wants this to last forever too, Kavinsky’s cock fucking into him and the bright ache of it.

He balances on the knife edge for a long minute, maybe more, breathless, body screaming for the last push over. He squeezes his fingers around the base of his cock instead, unwilling to let go just yet.

Kavinsky’s teeth close against his neck in a dazzling flare of pain and he’s gone.

His orgasm comes with the abruptness of a punch to the gut, in a wave of heat and stars in his vision. He thinks he cries out but he can’t hear over the feeling, endless white pleasure. Kavinsky fucks him through it, groaning loudly at the new tightness Sebastian can distantly feel. It’s all sensation, pushing the border of _too much_ until Sebastian’s vision blurs.

He grits his teeth and forces himself up, refusing to collapse while Kavinsky’s still inside him.

“Come on,” Sebastian hisses and hitches his hips back, orgasm-clumsy and uncoordinated. “Come on, fucking _come in me_.”

Kavinsky groans, surprised and abrupt, and then his hands tighten on Sebastian’s body and his cock is pulsing inside him. It feels good, so good Sebastian’s spent cock twitches despite the ache and exhaustion.

They stay locked together for what feels like a minor eternity. Sebastian lets it happen, doesn’t fight the hands locked on his hips, lets Kavinsky take his weight. It feels good, his cool skin against the feverish burn of exertion.

Kavinsky slips free after a minute or so and they both hiss. The wet feeling of come and lube in Sebastian’s ass makes him grimace.

Kavinsky steps away, giving Sebastian enough room to step back into his discarded pants and pull them up, careful of tender bruises already developing. He doesn’t say anything about them and Kavinsky doesn’t either, though Sebastian feels his eyes on him like a physical touch. It’s silent, almost awkward but mostly just spent.

Kavinsky’s recovered his sunglasses and seated them firmly back on his face when Sebastian’s finished shaking his shirt into place. His pants are still undone, his hair a fucked up nest. He probably smells like lube and semen and sweat. 

“There’s spunk on my car,” Kavinsky says a moment later, sounding utterly dismayed, and Sebastian just can’t hold in the laugh. 

It’s loud and awkward and genuine, nothing sarcastic about it. He recovers quickly but the laughter is still there, caught in his ribcage. 

“There’s spunk in my fucking ass,” he counters and Kavinsky shrugs. He’s staring at the come puddled on the hood of his car with a heartbroken expression. Sebastian rolls his eyes and steps over to grab the bag full of cigarettes that’d been his whole official reason for coming here. 

Kavinsky’s hand lands on his shoulder, pulling him up short. 

“Before you go,” Kavinsky begins and then stops. He looks like he’s squinting under his glasses, like he doesn’t want to say what he’s about to say, or like he’s searching for the right words and failing. He doesn’t continue, just twists his mouth and waits. The pause goes on for so long Sebastian’s almost tempted to let it keep going, just to see how long it’d last. 

“Yes?” Sebastian drawls instead, heavy on the irony. Kavinsky doesn’t look at him, just rests his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder for a moment longer before dropping away. He still doesn’t continue for long moments, busies himself doing up his pants instead. 

“There’s a kid,” Kavinsky says at last, awkward as hell. “Name’s Franck.”

Sebastian stares at him for a long moment. He doesn’t even know where to begin. 

“And I care?” he asks at last, biting sarcasm mostly for show. Kavinsky snorts. 

“Catty bitch,” he replies, and it’s almost affectionate. “No. He’s just… go easy on him, if he shows up here.”

Sebastian snorts and flicks his fingers at Kavinsky, shooing his words away. 

“I’ll do as I like, I think,” he says, standing up. His ass is sore, a thick burning ache and an edge of emptiness, but he ignores it. Doesn’t let it show on his face. He can wince all he likes when he’s safe back in town, behind a closed door where no one can see the weakness.

Kavinsky reaches out and catches him by the shoulder. His face is uncharacteristically serious, distant, eyes dim behind the sunglasses. The smear of blood across his mouth and cheek, dark and browning, doesn’t add any levity.

“I mean it, Seb,” he says. 

There’s something so jarring about this sudden weightiness that Sebastian doesn’t think to bitch about the nickname. He’s busy reevaluating instead. Trying to calculate what would put that kind of look on Kavinsky’s face, _Kavinsky_ who’s everything short of indestructible.

“He’s like you,” he tests, and it’s Kavinsky’s turn to snort.

“He’s not,” he replies, half-laughing like the idea is absurd.

Sebastian considers that, reaching down idly and doing up his pants. He’s worried now, creeping paranoia setting in with the vagueness, with the way Kavinsky still isn’t smiling and declaring it all a grand joke.

“Is he human?” he asks at last. It’s a fair question to ask Kavinsky, he feels, considering.

Kavinsky waits several long, telling seconds.

“Think so,” he says at last and shrugs.

“Fuck,” Sebastian says sourly. “Fuck your Franck, then. Like I give a shit.”

“Fine,” Kavinsky says with a snort. “Your problem, then.” 

Silence reigns, broken by the sound of clothing being shaken back into place and the crackle of the plastic bag as Sebastian snags its handles. The motion reminds him of the aching burn in his ass and he grunts as he stands up.

Kavinsky doesn’t laugh but his mouth is a smirk when Sebastian looks his way.

Sebastian doesn’t call him on it, too tired to fight again. He’s feeling it all, the exertion and the bone-deep poison of exhaustion at the late hour. Kavinsky, he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t actually know if Kavinsky sleeps. He knows so much about him, but not that.

“The bike was a bad idea,” Kavinsky observes. Sebastian grunts and otherwise ignores him, turns to his bike starts stowing everything away, precious cigarettes tucked into the saddlebag. He hears Kavinsky grabbing the backpack, the muffled clink again of glass bottles against each other. He ignores that too, until he turns and sees the casual way Kavinsky’s leaning against the hood of the car and watching him, echoing unpleasant déjà vu.

“Will you…” Sebastian begins and then cuts himself off abruptly. He doesn't know how to ask.

Kavinsky pushes off from the hood of the car, steps into Sebastian’s space and reaches out like he's going to touch Sebastian’s face, his mouth or maybe his cheek. Sebastian shies away instinctively, a step back and Kavinsky lets his hand drop without mentioning it. They watch each other for a long moment, Kavinsky’s eyes banked fire behind dark lenses.

“I'll be back in a month, maybe less,” he says.

Kavinsky steps back and heads for the driver’s side door. He brushes past Sebastian in the process, too close to be unintentional, not deliberate enough to be an attempt to provoke. They both too tired and spent to call up even irritation.

He swallows the instinct to follow, to climb in and press Kavinsky down into the soft leather seats. To fall asleep in the passenger side and wake up to the Testarossa humming underneath him, cruising across the desert in the flashing noon sun. To say fuck it all to everything he'd built, his little empire and city. Trade it for Kavinsky and a Testarossa and… and what else, really?

Foolish, stupid daydream. He spits on the ground instead.

The Testarossa’s door opens with a sound Sebastian’s far too familiar with, by now.

“I will count the days,” he says and dredges up a laugh when Kavinsky flips him off without turning around.

The Testarossa still hasn’t left when Sebastian climbs onto the bike with a wince and kicks it into gear. It’s still sitting right on the border of Sebastian’s territory when Sebastian pulls onto the road and has to focus on steering.


End file.
